


Phase Two

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bondage, Caning, Dom/sub, Hurt/Comfort, Insults, M/M, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: Insecurities must be lanced like infected wounds, and Jack has ignored his for far too long.





	Phase Two

He takes no joy in violence, but Zenyatta acknowledges its necessity. **  
**

Commander Morrison approaches him wearing full combat gear, dirty, fresh from a mission. There’s a tightness, weariness (wariness) in his stance even in the safety of the watchpoint, even alone with someone who has befriended most in their ranks. (Trust no one.)

He asks Zenyatta while he stares past him, and that tells the omnic everything.

* * *

Zenyatta traces the curves of his visor before surveying his face. He is pallid, tired, his scars an echo of the scratches on his own faceplate. Jack was vibrant in his youth, even less than ten years ago. Zenyatta has seen the holovids. A golden man with eyes the color of an unpolluted sky, his arms thrown around the shoulders of ghosts. Now, with a deep scowl affixed on his face, lips drawn thin and bloodless, hair stark white, he looks older than Reinhardt.

Zenyatta sets the mask down on the table next to the pile of woven red cord. When he turns back to Jack, the commander straightens to full height, looking as if he wished to be anywhere else. He touches the man’s face, a gentle press of synthetic palm, sensors archiving the texture of his five o'clock shadow. The man’s jaw tightens beneath his hand.

“Please remove your clothes, commander.”

* * *

It takes a long time for Jack to break. He is strong, more stubborn than any person he has known, his intense discipline making each blow land with little more than a clench of his jaw, even though he is trussed and on his knees.

Zenyatta is patient: some things cannot be rushed. Perhaps that is why Jack asked him in that low, gruff way he did anything.

Zenyatta stares at each precise, reddening mark against the man’s back, a neat, angry lattice overlaying scarred flesh. The cane had been Jack’s, but it had taken only a few swings for Zenyatta to learn it, to adapt, find the right amount of exertion to mar but not bloody.

Jack only strains at first, barely even twitching until he starts again from the top, covering previously laid marks, working as an artisan weaves their tapestry, with the practiced patience of a master.

Sweating is next, then jerking. Jack’s large muscles bulge, clenching against each blow, skin grown slick, body heating, chasing away some of his sickly pallor. Then he begins to grunt on swing fourteen, a lash midway down his back. Jack prefers it this way, knowing where the next blow will land.

“Is this what has become of Commander Morrison?” Zenyatta hums, and Jack seizes, a low, hurt whimper muffled behind his teeth. “Great men are never as they seem. Or perhaps it is just you.”

Another swing. Jack growls, but Zenyatta suspects it is so he does not cry.

“But you have always known that, haven’t you? There was always someone better, someone who deserved everything you were handed.”

He swings several times in rapid succession, the sounds loud and shocking. Jack flails, but the ropes hold true; Zenyatta had made sure they would. He waits until the man sags and groans to speak again.

“You took advantage of that, didn’t you. Your looks, your upbringing.” He drags the cane along his work, presses meanly into raised flesh. Jack groans like he’s been punched. “You fought the omnics that threatened to wipe out humanity. Yet you are now a slave to the very same.”

Zenyatta does not say what he thinks, he gives voice to Jack’s fears, an intricate performance for the commander. Still, his conviction reverberates in his synth, in the unforgiving way he lands blow after blow in a way only an omnic could, with calculations and strength measured in thousandths of a percent.

“Pathetic.” Zenyatta hisses, and the swings come in flurries now, as if he grows emboldened. “You do not deserve to be here at all. You don’t deserve anything but this.”

Jack sobs, hard and anguished, and the sound stays his hand. Zenyatta watches him thrash, twist and jerk, so much weaker than when they started, shoulders trembling with exhaustion.

He sets the cane down on the table, though the sound of it settling does not reach Jack’s ears. He is lost in his world, reveling in his pain, emotional and physical warring within himself. Zenyatta records with a feeling he cannot quite pinpoint the flush coloring the tips of Jack’s ears, how his noises grow softer, longer, needier.

Zenyatta kneels behind him, grazes his cool hands along the commander’s back, feather light, gentle (phase two). Jack moans, tries to shift away, lower body clenching. The man is a furnace, a barely contained force, barriers stripped piece by heavy piece.

“You did well, Jack.” Zenyatta says, tracing each mark, recording every gasp, stuttered and bitten off, the need for air outweighing the need to moan.

Jack babbles, and Zenyatta moves forward, pressing his smooth front to the man’s aching back.

He shushes Jack, does not move or let himself be moved until the man settles again, sagging against him, though most of the weight stays in the ropes, helps him support the man much taller and larger than himself.

“You were so good for me.” Zenyatta tucks his chin over the man’s shoulder, records his heaving, peaked chest, the man’s cock, hard and so red, twitching at every accidental press of his chassis to the cane marks, oozing so much, as if he is spent.

“Seeing you like this is an indescribable gift.” Zenyatta teases his digits along the sweat-slick planes of Jack’s stomach, and Jack begs then, mindless, wordless, straining, hips rocking, to catch his cock against him. He is patient still, admiring the feel of Jack’s body, finding his scars, wondering at the texture of the hair beneath his belly.

“You deserve this, Jack.” Zenyatta whispers against his ear as his hand settles at the base of Jack’s cock. It pulses dangerously, so hot and slick it makes Zenyatta’s fans pick up.

“Please—” Is the last word the commander manages, as Zenyatta works his hand in smooth, constant motions. There is no guessing, no teasing, only the eventuality of Jack’s pleasure, hot and racing in their minds.

His fingers stroke over Jack’s cheek as he catches his fingers beneath the head of his cock, circling, easy and true. The man draws taut, wordless growls and grunts spiking high, cracking, open and vulnerable like he has never seen him.

“So beautiful, commander.”

Zenyatta presses his faceplate to Jack’s throat as the man strains and tries to curl in on himself, the omnic’s name tumbling from his lips before each sound crashes broken and destroyed into the air. Zenyatta chirps as the first, hot spurt of cum coats his hand, catches against Jack’s chest, the tip of his chin, his heaving stomach. His own need is non-existent, enraptured by Jack’s pleasure cresting over him, finally, finally relaxed, at peace, warm and safe where he should feel such things.

He works the last drops from him until Jack angles away, cock oversensitive and spent. Still, Zenyatta does not leave him. He strokes along his stomach, the hand that smoothed over his cheek carding through his hair, working against his scalp in even, rhythmic circles.

It takes a long time for Jack to catch his breath. He narrates each step as he unwinds the man from his bindings, catches him when he falls forward without the support of the rope. He wipes the sweat and spend from Jack’s body, lays him on his stomach in his bed, watches as the man sleeps, fingers still petting through his hair, methodical, patient, with care that Jack has not known in years.

It is the least Zenyatta can do.

**Author's Note:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


End file.
